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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29294706">And There Was Only One Swallow</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/and_a_dash_of_Angst/pseuds/and_a_dash_of_Angst'>and_a_dash_of_Angst</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Gen, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Self-Esteem Issues, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Leshens (The Witcher), Originally written for Flashfic, Self-sacrificing idiocy, Witcher Potions (The Witcher)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 06:33:57</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,744</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29294706</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/and_a_dash_of_Angst/pseuds/and_a_dash_of_Angst</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A single witcher can deal with one leshen if they're lucky. Two Leshi? That's a job for <em>several</em> witchers, and even then, it'll be far from easy.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Eskel &amp; Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Eskel &amp; Lambert (The Witcher), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia &amp; Lambert</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>58</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>And There Was Only One Swallow</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written for the prompt for Flashfic #15 ( https://archiveofourown.org/collections/TWFF015 ), but I didn't manage to finish it in time so I'm just posting it here. You should go check out all the other amazing entries that did make it in!</p><p>Many thanks to the Bees of the Continent Cake Shop for your encouragement &amp; lore-providing, as well as to every one else who helped convince me this was worth finishing.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“Fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>wolves</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Lambert grumbled as he examined the remains of the leather straps that had, until yesterday, held his special reinforced alchemy bag to his armor. “Fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>Leshens</span>
  </em>
  <span>. As if one on its own isn’t bad enough.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If Geralt’s bard had been there, he no doubt would have some extremely unrealistic commentary about the tragic romance of a pair of ancient monsters, standing alone against the world and surviving for centuries despite the odds, all through the strength of their love. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Yeah, right</span>
  </em>
  <span>. First of all, Lambert would eat his sword if someone managed to produce proof that Leshens had any concept of </span>
  <em>
    <span>romance</span>
  </em>
  <span> or </span>
  <em>
    <span>love</span>
  </em>
  <span>. They survived because almost nothing but a particularly skilled witcher could kill a lone Leshen, and when you put two of them together their strength/hard-to-kill-ness didn’t so much </span>
  <em>
    <span>double</span>
  </em>
  <span> as </span>
  <em>
    <span>exponentially skyrocket</span>
  </em>
  <span>, getting tougher and tougher the longer they had to get used to fighting together. With one leshen, you could sometimes surprise it as it was coming out of its smoke form (if you managed to perfectly predict its movements </span>
  <em>
    <span>and</span>
  </em>
  <span> got </span>
  <em>
    <span>ridiculously</span>
  </em>
  <span> lucky); with two leshens working together and watching each other’s backs, such a move was downright impossible. It certainly didn’t help that these Leshens - Leshii? - were </span>
  <em>
    <span>smart</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and obviously had </span>
  <em>
    <span>plenty</span>
  </em>
  <span> of experience fighting together. They had quite skillfully avoided falling into the common trap of standing together to more literally watch the other’s back, which would have given Lambert a </span>
  <em>
    <span>very</span>
  </em>
  <span> convenient target for his bombs and let Eskel make a lovely bonfire of them with a single Igni; beyond that, they had apparently worked out some method of communicating and planning their attacks, and the result was a truly unnecessary amount of well-timed root explosions that left an unfortunate witcher with the option of getting skewered from below or stepping directly into the path of a vicious claw-swipe from above. Really, he didn’t know why either of his brothers had been even the slightest bit surprised to find the collection of several schools’ medallions hanging from one of the totems they’d destroyed- yesterday? The day before? It was getting hard to keep track - they already knew from the stories of the village where they’d accepted the contract that at least one witcher had hunted them before the wolves arrived. The Leshi were quite clearly still a problem, which really only left one possible conclusion as to the previous witcher’s fate.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well, shit,” Eskel’s low voice broke Lambert from his musings. At Geralt’s inquisitive hum, he held up a seemingly-whole potions bottle that was, on closer inspection, slowly leaking from a small crack where the neck joined the main flask. “This was my last Swallow.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That was the problem with Eskel. He took up so much room in his armor all on his own, he didn’t have all that much space left over for potion storage, so he tended not to bother stocking more than a few of each type at a time. Besides, he tended to concentrate his resources on sign-focused potions like Tawny Owl and Petri’s Philter (not that he needed any help with sign intensity if you asked Lambert), and since he pretty much always took one or both during a fight, he didn’t see the point of stocking a bunch of extra potions he’d be too toxic to use. Ever since his Child Surprise had fucked up his face, Eskel had been far more reluctant to go toxic than any other witcher he’d ever met; something about “I already look monstrous enough” (utter bullshit, in Lambert’s opinion) and the way the blackened blood vessels (which were hardly pleasant for any witcher) felt crawling through the mangled nerves across his cheek.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, shit, indeed.” Lambert did a quick inventory of the supplies he’d left with his bulkier alchemy set (you couldn’t carry </span>
  <em>
    <span>everything</span>
  </em>
  <span> on you to a fight, and besides, as yesterday had proven, putting all your eggs in one basket was </span>
  <em>
    <span>never</span>
  </em>
  <span> a good idea). “I’ve got a couple, but most of my Swallow was in my bag yesterday, so. Hopefully it doesn’t do anything for Leshens, which- has anyone ever tried that? Feeding a Leshen witcher potions? They’re not mortal, so it probably wouldn’t kill them, but-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lambert. Not the time,” Geralt growled from where he was bent over his own alchemy kit. “I’ve got a couple left, although one of them is probably not safe for either of you to use if you’re taking anything else.” Unlike Eskel, Geralt always carried plenty of potions, and used them too; his extra mutations had given him a significantly higher maximum-toxicity-threshold than the common witcher. A decade or so ago, Lambert had figured out how to brew concentrated versions of most of the potions they used, which produced tripled effects at the cost of triple toxicity. He’d learned pretty quickly that such concentrated doses weren’t generally worth keeping on hand, as they were so toxic as to more or less preclude the option of taking any other potions within the hour and most fights required a combination, but Geralt had quickly proven that he could take several and be perfectly fine (or, well, as ‘perfectly fine’ as he ever was).</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Luckily, Lambert hadn’t kept all his sword oils in his travel alchemy bag, so they didn’t have to make due with either of his brothers’ inferior Relict Oil. After loading the unfortunately-squishable leather pouch Geralt had lent him with the last of his potions (carefully wrapped in several layers of cotton to either cushion them from impact or hopefully absorb their contents if they broke) and dousing several cloths in Relict Oil for speedy re-oiling in the middle of the forest, he handed the flask off to Eskel, who was attempting to adjust his layers of armor to minimize the gaps caused by the many tears and rips he’d picked up the previous days. Seeing the way Eskel had carefully propped his leaky swallow to lean against a rolled-up shirt on the inn room table so no more of the bright red fluid could escape, he couldn’t contain a small snort of laughter. “Not gonna do us much good sitting here, is it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s better to have a backup waiting in the room than to be completely out of healing potions when we need them,” Eskel replied with a shrug. It was true, but still. If they could make it all the way back to the village, they weren’t likely going to be in desperate need of a half-empty Swallow, were they? And it’s not like they’d have time to run all the way back here for a quick breather between fights, either. Still, if Eskel wasn’t judging him for stuffing a few extra bombs in the looser parts of his armor (they’re less breakable than potions and the bag Geralt had given him just did not have enough room), he’d refrain from mocking him too harshly for his lonely Swallow.</span>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Shit!</span>
  </em>
  <span>” Geralt watched Lambert reach for his next Moondust as he dodged yet another root trying to skewer him, only for his grasping hand to come up empty. Shaking his head to clear the buzz from the toxicity of the excessively toxic Swallow he’d just downed, Geralt noticed the second Leshen (that Eskel was supposed to be fighting- where was he? Was he alright?) crouching to shove its claws into the ground with its eyes locked on his distracted baby brother. Thanks to the Thunderbolt he’d taken earlier, a quick leap was enough to take him across the clearing and tackle Lambert out of the way just in time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What the- oh fucking cock!” Ah, Lambert had noticed the pillar of roots that had suddenly sprouted in the exact spot he’d been standing half a second ago. “You alright?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hm.” He could still fight. Sure, he could feel blood running down his back from where the leap had aggravated the slash he’d decided required using up one of his precious Swallows, and the burning in his left calf told him the attack he’d saved Lambert from hadn’t entirely missed </span>
  <em>
    <span>him</span>
  </em>
  <span>, but he’d be fine. He could already feel the Swallow starting to knit some of the wounds back together, and he was sure he’d fought in worse shape before. Not that he’d be telling any of that to Lambert, though; he’d just beat himself up for fucking up and making Geralt intervene, as if Geralt wouldn’t rather take a blow himself than watch either of his brothers get injured any day. He heals more quickly, so it’s only logical that he take the most damage, right? </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>That doesn’t make it hurt any less</span>
  </em>
  <span> whispered a little voice in his head that sounded rather a lot like Eskel. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Shut up</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he whispered back. It’s not like he wasn’t used to pain. After the Grasses, and then the experimental mutations the mages had subjected him to afterwards, this was </span>
  <em>
    <span>nothing</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just then, a familiar scream split the air from maybe 40 meters away. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Eskel</span>
  </em>
  <span>. It didn’t matter how injured or not Geralt was; their brother needed their help.</span>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>It was one thing to </span>
  <em>
    <span>know</span>
  </em>
  <span> Leshen were intelligent, and another thing entirely to </span>
  <em>
    <span>watch</span>
  </em>
  <span> them learn and adapt before your eyes. After the first day, every time a fight began, Eskel found himself constantly hounded by crows and wolves and anything else the Leshi could throw at him, leaving him constantly casting Quen and diving out of the way of constant attacks with no chance to gather his energy enough to cast his infamous Igni, which had been extremely effective in cutting the fight short on their first trip into the forest. While it was rather flattering to be so obviously assessed as a significant threat, it was also </span>
  <em>
    <span>really goddamn annoying</span>
  </em>
  <span>. And he was getting tired; they’d been at this for hours, trying to destroy (what they hoped was) the last of the older Leshen’s totems, and the constant dodging was wearing him down. And apparently they’d noticed the witchers’ Divide and Conquer tactic; the smaller leshen he’d been facing off with for the last hour had disappeared between one blow and the next, and while he was still trying to find where it had smoked off to (in between dodging </span>
  <em>
    <span>yet another</span>
  </em>
  <span> pack of magically-incensed wolves), the second had snuck up on him from behind and landed a solid swipe that completely shattered his Quen shield and launched him several meters across the clearing to where he’d gotten rather scratched up by the dense thicket he’d landed in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instinct had him starting to roll to the side to escape a potential follow-up the moment he landed, but the sound of Geralt roaring a challenge, his voice thickening the way it sometimes did in the thick of battle when toxicity and adrenaline took over, as well as the answering bellow of pain from the Leshen, had him pausing to assess the situation before he leapt right back into the middle of it. As he stilled, he caught a glimpse of what looked to be the final totem they’d been searching for out of the corner of his eye, almost completely hidden by the thorny thicket but for a small gap behind the crushed branches he’d landed on. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Finally, some good luck</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tired as he was from several hours of fighting on top of everything else they’d been through that week, the sound of Geralt struggling to hold back the Leshen on his own (Lambert must be busy with the other) gave him the boost he needed to cast one last powerful Igni. </span>
</p><p>
  <span> After it’s last totem went up in flames, it only took Geralt and Eskel about ten more minutes together to cut down the elder Leshen for the last time. The triumphant shout that echoed through the woods a few moments later implied that Lambert had had similar luck.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Shit Eskel, you alright?” Lambert’s greeting as he found the clearing they’d ended up in made him pause to look himself over with a frown. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh, that does look rather bad,</span>
  </em>
  <span> he realized; his jacket looked like it had been through a tornado of knives, and he was definitely favoring his right ankle, now that he thought of it. Apparently getting thrown across an entire clearing by a powerful relict wasn’t great for your health. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Who could’ve guessed</span>
  </em>
  <span>? “My potions got smashed an hour ago, so-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Here,” Geralt muttered, voice still not entirely back to its usual as he pulled a small bottle from a pouch on his belt. “Swallow. Normal one.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you sure?” Eskel couldn’t help squinting dubiously at the other Wolf. Geralt was looking rather beat to hell himself; his armor was absolutely covered in blood (no telling how much of it was actually his) and his hair was looking redder than Lambert’s where it was clumped and sticking to his face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mm. I’ll be fine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Knowing just how stubborn Geralt was (and that standing around arguing over it wouldn’t help any of them), Eskel accepted the offered bottle with a sigh. After a few minutes to let the potion start doing its job while the others collected what trophies and alchemy ingredients they could from the fallen Leshi, they tiredly started on the long trek back to the nearest village, going slower than they usually might to keep from stressing Eskel’s twisted ankle (which, thanks to the swallow Geralt had given him, felt like it had already been healing for a week rather than maybe half an hour at most).</span>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Alright, so maybe “fine” was pushing it</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Geralt was forced to admit as his vision spun away from him for the fourth time in as many minutes. Whatever. He’d survive. They were out of Swallow, he could deal with it. Eskel had deserved that last dose more; even without the aid of any potions, Geralt could heal twice as fast as either of his brothers on a good day, and keep going after taking a lot more damage besides. It was his own fault that he’d wasted his other potion before the fight was over, and okay, maybe that potion was the only reason he’d managed to keep fighting for the last hour, but so what? He couldn’t blame the others for his lacking defense that let him get injured enough to need it. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Nevermind the fact that he’d only gotten most of those injuries because he was too busy blocking an attack on one of them to protect himself</span>
  </em>
  <span>, the Eskel-voice in his head said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh. Apparently trying to shake the annoying </span>
  <em>
    <span>because I’m right </span>
  </em>
  <span>voice out of his head hadn’t been the best idea. As the ringing in his ears quieted, he became aware of a hand on his shoulder keeping him from swaying off his feet and a voice calling his name with growing concern.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“M’fine, Esk’.” Huh. His mouth felt rather funny. As his senses continued to return, he finally noticed someone on his other side rifling through his potions holsters and tried ineffectually to bat them away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stop it, you dumbass. Let me help.” Ah, Lambert. Good. If he was bothering him he was surely alright. “Where’s your other Swallow?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His Swallow? His songbird bard isn’t a </span>
  <em>
    <span>swallow</span>
  </em>
  <span>- oh, right. “Alr’dy took it. I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>fine</span>
  </em>
  <span>, leave me </span>
  <em>
    <span>alone</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” No, his knees did not wobble when he pushed away from the shoulder he’d somehow started leaning on without noticing. Absolutely not.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You </span>
  <em>
    <span>already took it??</span>
  </em>
  <span> And you’re still this bad?” </span>
  <em>
    <span>Okay, Lambert, thanks for that.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Damn it, Geralt, why the hell’d you give </span>
  <em>
    <span>me</span>
  </em>
  <span> your last swallow? I’m perfectly capable of walking a couple miles with a bit of a limp.” </span>
  <em>
    <span>Yeah, sure, but you should never have to.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hmm.” Though he did feel a bit bad about the obvious panic rising in his brothers’ voices, he couldn’t quite bring himself to care as much as he probably should’ve as his eyes slid shut of their own will. Both of them were as healthy as could be expected after a several-days-long fight with a leshen; that was what mattered. It’s not like either of them would just abandon him when he passed out like he was about to, right? As long as he survived, and he knew he would, he didn’t see the point in raising such a fuss.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Geralt? Can you even hear me? </span>
  <em>
    <span>Geralt!</span>
  </em>
  <span>” The last thing he felt was one of Eskel’s armor spikes digging into his cheek where he’d slumped against him as consciousness drifted out of reach.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Is Leshi the plural of Leshen? Who knows? Not me. None of the Wolves are English majors anyway; they don't care. That's Jaskier's job.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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